Page 4

4

Thomas

M anakin tapped a stack of folders against the table, straightening them with that irritating precision of his before setting them down. I already didn’t like wherever this was going. Will looked like he wanted to vomit.

The tension in the room shifted. Our warm camaraderie of earlier cooled as we prepared to step onto dangerous ground.

“What’s the current situation on the ground? What’s Budapest like? I’ve never even thought about the place, much less been there,” I said.

The others of our team nodded, as though I’d spoken words already rattling around in their heads.

Manakin exhaled, rolling a cigarette between two fingers before speaking. His voice was steady, almost detached, but there was something hard beneath the surface.

“Budapest isn’t a city anymore. It’s a wound that has yet to heal.”

He flicked ash into the tray, watching the embers die. A sliver of smoke curled and danced before dissipating.

“The war tore through it like a rabid dog. The Siege of Budapest was supposed to only last a few weeks, but it lasted almost four months. The Red Army and the Nazis fought street by street, block by block, and by the time it was over, the city wasn’t just broken—it was gutted. You will still see the scars. Bombed-out buildings, rubble where homes used to be, entire districts that still stink of smoke if you stand there long enough. People barely survive in the cracks, in the spaces the Soviets haven’t paved over with their boots yet.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“And the Soviets, well—” He let out a humorless chuckle. “They came in as liberators, sure, but I doubt you need me to tell you what they really are. The Red Army didn’t just take the city. They consumed it. They ransacked it. Hundreds of thousands of Hungarian women were raped. Tens of thousands of men were dragged away, sent east, never to be seen again—and those were just the first months. What is left is a city that’s alive on the surface but rotting underneath.”

Manakin tapped his cigarette against the edge of the table.

“You will see it when you get there. The way people move . . . too fast or too slow, trying to be invisible . . . the way they talk—never too much, never too little, always looking over their shoulder. The Soviets run everything now. The Hungarian Communist Party is a puppet held up by Russian hands. Anyone with ties to the old government was arrested and sent to internment camps or put on trial for ‘war crimes’—which, let us be honest, is a nice way of saying ‘eliminate the opposition.’”

He exhaled sharply.

“The Hungarian secret police, the áVH, they’re everywhere. Half of them do not wear uniforms. Neighbors turn each other in for a loaf of bread. The city is afraid—and for good reason. If you are Hungarian, you keep your head down. If you are a foreigner, you are either an asset to the regime or an enemy of the state. And if you are an enemy, you disappear.”

His gaze flicked to me, then to Will.

“ That is what you are walking into. A city that is still trying to figure out whether it survived or was conquered by something worse.”

Silence settled over the table.

Manakin flipped open the first folder in his stack, revealing another set of documents, photographs, and typed dossiers. He pulled one out and slid it toward Will.

“Henry Calloway,” he said. “American. U.S. State Department representative. Here to oversee ‘scientific collaboration’ and promote post-war industrial partnerships.”

Will picked up the file, flipping through it without expression. The photo they’d given him looked suitably dull—close-cropped hair, a formal expression, a man who looked like he lived and breathed paperwork.

“I don’t look very fun,” Will quipped. I resisted the urge to elbow him.

“You’re not supposed to,” Manakin replied.

Will raised an eyebrow, but Manakin ignored him.

“Your job is to be the official face of the delegation. You talk when necessary, stay out of technical discussions, and make sure Hungarian officials buy into the story. If anyone asks what you actually do, you ‘facilitate diplomatic cooperation.’ Say nothing. Mean nothing.”

“So, I’m the clueless bureaucrat.” Will hummed, tapping his fingers against the file. “At least I don’t have to put on an accent.”

“Exactly right . . . on both counts. We have all heard you try your hand at a British accent, and the Crown was offended.”

Will rolled his eyes, then closed the folder and leaned back, arms crossed. I could tell he didn’t like any of this, but he wasn’t about to argue.

Manakin turned to me next.

I already knew what was coming, but I still braced myself as he pushed the next dossier forward.

“Dr. Charles Beckett,” he said. “British. Science and Technology Advisor. MI6 liaison for post-war cryptographic studies. You’re the delegation’s lead encryption specialist.”

I took the file. The moment I saw the stamped approvals, the forged credentials from the British Foreign Office, and the attached diplomatic papers, my stomach tightened.

This was dangerous, a spy game within a spy game.

I kept my voice neutral. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Manakin lifted a brow. “It’s believable. You know basic cryptography, you speak Russian, and your name is on official British diplomatic registers. No one will question it.”

I flicked through the pages, reading the manufactured backstory of a man I was supposed to be. Dr. Beckett had studied at Cambridge, had worked on post-war cryptographic recovery projects, had been selected for this trip because of his expertise in classified encryption methodologies.

It was airtight.

It was also a goddamn invitation to get shot.

“This makes me a target,” I said flatly.

“Everyone in this room is a target,” Raines shot back.

He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it less infuriating.

I forced myself to set the file down, keeping my expression blank. Will glanced at me from across the table, his blue eyes knowing, but he said nothing.

I could feel the tension in the room shifting.

Manakin took another long drag of his cigarette before picking up the next folder. He slid it toward Sparrow.

“Juliette Moreau,” he said. “French. Telecommunications analyst, specializing in cryptographic networks and post-war communications security.”

Sparrow accepted the folder without a word, her expression as composed as ever.

“You’re here to evaluate Hungary’s telecommunications infrastructure. You ask questions about encrypted transmissions, observe their technology, and make recommendations on ‘international collaboration.’ The French were heavily involved in European cryptographic recovery, so your presence makes sense.”

Sparrow nodded once, flipping through the documents, her fingers smooth and unhurried. She wasn’t showing it, but I knew she didn’t like this either. I could feel her displeasure creeping across the table.

Manakin turned to Egret last.

The man hadn’t moved the entire time, but his growing irritation was a living, breathing thing, threatening to break free of its flimsy cage and ravage the civility of our proceedings. It was clear in the way he gripped his whiskey glass just a little too tightly, the way his eyes darkened.

Manakin slid the final file across the table.

“Dr. Hans Weiss,” he said. “Austrian industrial science observer. Assigned to assess Hungary’s post-war technology sector.”

Egret stared at it as though Manakin had just slid a pile of shit in front of him.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” he said, voice clipped.

Manakin exhaled.

Here we go.

“It’s a good cover,” Manakin said.

Egret scoffed, finally picking up the file and flipping it open with unrestrained disgust.

“Hans Weiss? Industrial science observer? This is ridiculous. Austria’s scientific community was ransacked after the war—half of my supposed ‘colleagues’ were either executed or absorbed into Soviet projects. If anyone starts digging, I’ll be compromised before we even get past the first meeting.”

“No one is going to dig,” Manakin said.

“You don’t know that,” Egret snapped.

The air in the room tightened.

Egret ran a hand through his hair, muttering something in German, before slamming the file shut.

Sparrow reached out a hand, stroking his arm.

Will’s brows shot nearly to his hairline.

I tried to keep my face blank. There would be time to explore whatever they’d become after this farce of a briefing was over.

“And what happens if someone actually knows Hans Weiss? The real Hans Weiss?” he pressed. “Or if the Soviets decide Austria is no longer ‘neutral’ enough to justify my presence?”

“Then you adapt,” Manakin said coolly. “You are here to get a job done, not quibble.”

Egret let out a sharp breath, leaning forward with both hands on the table.

“This is a death sentence,” he said, voice quiet but lethal.

Manakin set his cigarette down, folding his hands in front of him.

“No, it’s an assignment. Do your job, and you won’t die.”

Egret laughed. “You really believe that?”

Silence.

Sparrow retracted her hand and stared down at her folder. Will was watching me, waiting for me to intervene, but I knew better than to get in the middle of an argument with Manakin.

Egret shook his head, jaw tight. He hated this.

So did I.

“This whole thing is a mess,” Egret muttered.

Manakin’s patience was wearing thin. “Do you have a better plan?”

Egret was silent.

“Then shut up and do your job,” Manakin said coldly.

The tension in the room was close to snapping.

Then—

“All right, enough,” Raines said.

His voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and undeniable.

We all turned.

Raines leaned back in his chair, tapping his cigarette against a tray, watching us with calculated patience. “We’re not going to sit here all night arguing about this. The covers are as solid as they come. They’ve been checked. The paperwork is clean. The entry plan is in place. None of this changes the fact that we have a job to do.”

He looked at Egret.

“I don’t like it either, but here we are.”

Egret didn’t respond.

The room was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep into your bones, made every breath feel heavier than it should. We weren’t arguing anymore. Not openly, at least, but the silence between us felt unfinished, like a thread left loose in the hem of a well-tailored suit.

Raines sat forward, pressing his palms against the table, his cigarette dangling between two fingers, glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Let’s talk about how you’re getting in,” he said, flicking ash into the tray before tapping a map spread out in front of him. He dragged a finger across the train routes, tracing a path from Vienna to Budapest—a thin red line cutting across the border, through Soviet-controlled territory. “We’re taking the Vienna-Budapest express. It’s the safest route for a delegation like ours. Western diplomats still use it. The Soviets keep a close watch, but they’re more interested in monitoring conversations than stopping every foreigner who crosses the border. As long as our papers check out, we pass through.”

Egret let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You’re assuming our papers will check out. You’re assuming the Hungarian border guards won’t decide we’re spies just because they’re in a bad mood.”

Raines didn’t even look up.

“If they were going to stop every foreigner who looked suspicious, they’d have no one left to interrogate,” he said. “That’s not how this works. They know Westerners still have business in Budapest. They’ll let you in, they’ll watch you, and they’ll make sure you know you’re being watched. That’s the game.”

Egret scoffed. “Until it isn’t.”

Raines lifted his gaze, pinning him with a stare.

“If you have a better way in, now’s the time to say it.”

Egret clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table, but he didn’t answer.

“Egret,” I sighed. Here we go again.

He turned his head, and I met his gaze with deliberate calm.

“I don’t like this either,” I said. “But this is our best option. We go in through official channels, we keep our heads down, and we don’t give them a reason to look too closely. Once we’re in, we move carefully. We play our parts.”

His eyes flickered with frustration, but there was something else, too—something deeper, something I understood too well.

Fear.

It wasn’t the kind that made men panic—it was the kind that made them think too much.

“If something goes wrong at the border,” he said, his voice quieter now, “we won’t have a way out. If they pull us, we won’t make it to Budapest.”

He wasn’t wrong.

But he wasn’t right, either.

“We don’t plan for failure,” I said. “We plan to get in. If something goes wrong, we adapt—but if we walk into this expecting disaster, we’ll create one ourselves.”

Egret held my gaze for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nodded once, exhaled, and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We do it your way.”

Raines turned back to the map.

“The train will get you to Budapest without issue, but once you arrive, you’ll need to separate,” he continued. “The moment you step off that platform, you’ll be watched, maybe not obviously, but trust me—someone will be keeping track. The best way to shake them is to make it too much of a hassle to track you all at once. The Reds are good, but they still have manpower limitations.”

He pulled out four separate hotel reservations, sliding them across the table.

“Two pairs, separate locations. Emu and Condor are staying at the Gellért Hotel—respectable, Western-friendly, but not too obvious. Sparrow and Egret will be at the Astoria. It’s got a little more Soviet oversight, but it keeps things balanced. If all four of you check into the same hotel, it looks deliberate. This way, you blend.”

Sparrow, who had been silent this entire time, shrank into her chair, her fingers tapping against the file in front of her.

Raines noticed.

“Something to add?”

She hesitated.

I saw the way her shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way she sat just a little lower in her seat, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

“No,” she said.

Manakin glanced at her, then nodded once toward Raines. “She’ll be fine.”

Sparrow didn’t react, but I caught the way she exhaled, slow and measured, as if forcing herself to believe it.

I turned back to Raines.

“Once we’re inside, what’s the next step?”

“You establish your presence,” he said. “Emu, you start setting up meetings with Hungarian trade officials. Play the American diplomat role. Make a little noise, but not too much.”

Will nodded.

“Condor,” Raines continued, looking at me, “you get close to Farkas. Approach him carefully—if he spooks, we lose everything. Start with professional inquiries, then feel him out. If he’s interested in defecting, he’ll let you know.”

I didn’t like the uncertainty of that, but I nodded.

“Sparrow, Egret—your job is to be visible, but not memorable. You’re scientists, observers, people who belong, but not people who matter. Don’t give them a reason to focus on you.”

Egret let out a soft snort but didn’t argue.

Raines sat back, finishing his cigarette.

“Once we have Farkas’s read, we’ll adjust the exit plan, but first, we have to get inside.”

I glanced at the map again.

A thin red line from Vienna to Budapest.

It looked so simple. It wasn’t.

“Questions?” Manakin said, reclaiming his lead.

When no one spoke, he sat back, his chair protesting beneath his weight.

Raines snuffed out his cigarette and stood. “We leave in three hours.”